


The Exploits of a Forger and a Point Man

by Zafer_Aistra



Series: We're Trying to Make it Work [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 03:59:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zafer_Aistra/pseuds/Zafer_Aistra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eames enlists the help of the team to get into Arthur's pants, and Arthur is oblivious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Exploits of a Forger and a Point Man

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters of Inception. They belong to Nolan, instead.

"We should fuck," is the third sentence out of Eames' mouth while on the phone ("Arthur, darling." and "Fucking Hong Kong was a motherfucking bitch." being the other two, respectively).  
  


"How about we touch on the fact that subtlety is not one of your strongest points?"  
  


"I can think of at least one strong point that you can touch on." Arthur can envision him winking, and that does absolutely _nothing_ for his libido, which is pretty much nonexistent at this moment.  
  


"Is it your gun, Mr. Eames?" Arthur asks uninterestedly, straightening his cuff links. "Or perhaps your penis?"  
  


"Yes, my cock—gun? I gaze at the ceiling of this shabby motel room in wonder about your fetishes. Gunplay, darling? Do you get off on the thought of someone thrusting a hard, metal object in your arse? Or do you just like the idea of being held at gunpoint as you're forced to bend over and take it?"  
  


"I like the thought that if I had a gun, I could shoot you."  
  


"Ah," Eames replies. "You like violence. I get it."  
  


"I like shooting people. It's not necessarily the same thing."  
  


"Do you think you could handle my cock as well as you can handle a gun?"  
  


Arthur groans. "Why are you calling, Mr. Eames? I'm supposed to be having lunch with a potential client in less than an hour."  
  


"Oh, alright. I should probably go before someone calls the front desk to complain about the noise at two in the morning."  
  


"Two? In the morning?" Arthur asks, perplexed.  
  


"Yes. Two."  
  


"Two," Arthur repeats.  
  


"Is there a bloody echo? Yes, Arthur. I'm in Helsinki right now. It's two in the morning and I'm jetlagged beyond fuck and Hong Kong was a fucking bitch," Eames snaps.  
  


The point man is unfazed. "We've already come to that conclusion. Why are you in Helsinki? Why are you in _Finland_ , for that matter?" he wonders aloud. "Are you even allowed there?"  
  


"That's Switzerland, dear. I'm not allowed in _Switzerland_ ," the Englishman corrects.  
  


"How did you manage that? The Swiss are the most laid-back people I've _ever_ met. That's like a Canadian turning down help for a runaway drug addict with the most potent form of syphilis in the world. It defies the laws of nature if it happens. They just can't say no."  
  


"Well, only if said syphilis-infected drug addict doesn't supply them with the right beer and maple syrup," is Eames's answer.  
  


"Again, Eames, I have a meeting to get to."  
  


"Wait! Arthur!"  
  


A sigh of exasperation. "Yes?"  
  


"I can show _you_ something that defies the laws of nature."  
  


"…What?"  
  


"What? I was replying to the last thing you said."  
  


"That I have a meeting? Which I'm going to be late to if this keeps up."  
  


"No, the thing about Canadians and syphilis…"  
  


"Mr. Eames," Arthur shifts the phone to his other hand as he puts on a tie. "Why are you calling?"  
  


There's the sound of a phone being set down, and a faint shuffling on the other end.  
  


"Eames? What are you doing?"  
  


"I'm putting my trousers back on," he answers honestly.  
  


Arthur blinks. "Why were they off in the first place?"  
  


"I can't sleep."  
  


"…And, again, I ask: why were your pants off?"  
  


"Not pants. Trousers. It doesn't matter, anymore."  
  


"…"  
  


"…Arthur? Hello?"  
  


"Sorry, I had to put the phone down. I really need to go, Eames. I'll contact you if I get a client. Get some sleep," Arthur orders.  
  


"I don't think I can now," Eames laughs.  
  


"Why not?"  
  


"I never realized how hot you sound when you order people around."  
  


"It's probably just you," Arthur groans again.  
  


"What are you wearing?" Eames inquires slyly.  
  


Arthur moans, in the most unsexy way possible. "Goodbye, Mr. Eames."  
  


Eames frantically shouts. "No! Arthur!" The only reply he receives is the sound of silence. "Arthur? Are you touching yourself?"  
  


The phone emits a long, inglorious beep. Dial tone.  
  


_"Shite."  
_

* * *

Fucking Hong Kong _is_ a motherfucking bitch. It starts off badly, continues in that sense, and ends with a dive into the deep end of the pool of vomited shit.  
  


According to Yusuf, of course. And Yusuf isn't the most reliable source for information about this since he spends his time adjusting Somnacin levels, but Ariadne, Saito, and Eames all agree that they're never ever setting foot in fucking Hong Kong ever again.  
  


Dom thinks things go swimmingly.  
  


Their first mistake is bringing Saito along and assuming that he can speak Chinese.  
  


"Not all Asians can speak Chinese, Mr. Cobb," he calmly replies. They're already two levels under and it's too late to back out at this point. They have less than twenty minutes (dream time) until the first kick and they aren't even close to extracting the information they were sent in for.  
  


Dom groans. "I just assumed—"  
  


"Never assume," Eames pipes in, not in his forge yet (a young boy that is supposedly the mark's deceased grandfather). "It makes an ass of you and me."  
  


"You're already an ass, Mr. Eames," Saito responds. He turns back to Dom. "Why did you think it would be a good idea to wait until now to inquire about my language skills?"  
  


"You're Asian!" Dom shouts. "You should be able to speak Asian languages!"  
  


Saito nods. "Oh, I can speak Japanese and a little bit of Mandarin. I found no interest in full Chinese, though. It sounds _too Asian_."  
  


* * *

The second mistake is allowing Eames to really get into character with the new forge, a child around eight years old who doesn't know a lick of English.  
  


"Cobb." Ariadne pats his shoulder.  
  


He holds up a hand. "Just a minute Ariadne. You already have a background with basic Chinese, if you know Mandarin. How about we just do some quick lessons—"  
  


Ariadne glances at Saito, then out the window. "Cobb."  
  


Saito sees what she's looking at, and looks between Ariadne and Dominick. "Mr. Cobb."  
  


"—or you could act like a foreigner, because you are, so I guess it really wouldn't be actin—"  
  


_"Dom!"  
  
_

"What?"  
  


His eyes follow the path of her finger to the window.  
  


"It's a window," he tells her.  
  


"Outside," she snaps.  
  


Outside, a group of people (projections) has gathered around a young, Chinese boy who is gleefully dancing around with a stick, apparently showing off his skill.  
  


It's lacking.  
  


Dom isn't quite sure if it's the boy who's the horrible dancer, or if it's Eames. He's not sure he actually wants to know.  
  


The projections are enjoying it, though, as a few of them are offering the boy money.  
  


Dominick runs out amidst the shouts of, "Shit! Dom, get back here!" and "Mr. Cobb! That's a very bad idea."

 

He pulls the boy close to him. "He's not a prostitute!" He shakes Eames, his eyes open in a demented and psychotic manner. "You're not a prostitute!"  
  


Eames looks at him in horror. As a father, Dominick realizes afterwards that he should've noticed the signs much faster. As it is, however, he watches as Eames's mouth snaps shut, his hands shake, and his lips quiver slightly.  
  


" _Oh_ , no no no nonononono—"  
  


Eames screams. He throws himself on the ground and kicks and shouts and _screams._ And it doesn't matter what language it's in, a scream is a scream is a scream is a goddamn scream. Tears stream down his face and snot forms in the cleft of his upper lip.  
  


The projections turn and all of them look between the little boy and the strange man. A few step forward and draw guns, not quite sure who to shoot.  
  


So, it all makes sense when Ariadne becomes the better man (woman) and shoots Dom out of the dream. She turns to Eames, whispers, "Sorry," and shoots him in the head.  
  


The projections scramble and come from all directions, dragging Saito and the architect to the center of the street, where they all take turns stabbing and running over their mangled bodies.  
  


It's not the nicest death Ariadne has had the pleasure of running across. Saito is fascinated by the old fashioned methods some of the projections are using, and is starting to consider learning more about the Chinese culture.

* * *

The third mistake is not using Arthur as a point man.  
  


"Dobinick Cobb."  
  


"Arthur?"  
  


"Why didend you dell be aboud dis?"  
  


"You're sick," he answers. _Obviously.  
  
_

Arthur coughs loudly, as if to verify that yes, he _is_ sick. "Ibe got a cold. Ibe been worshe. You need a poind ban."  
  


Dom pinches the bridge of his nose. "Not while you're sick. I found someone else. It was supposed to be an easy job, so I wasn't worried. It went fine. I'm more worried about you. Have you taken any medication?"  
  


"Yeb," Arthur laughs. "Id's working. Ibe feelin' all dingly inside. Dob, you shouldeb called be when you knew you needed a poind ban. Ari made id sound like id sucked donkey balls."  
  


Cobb laughs, because Arthur is a scary guy when he's stern, but the medication is making him sound more like a child scolding his parents for talking during a puppet show. Cute, innocent, and completely harmless.  
  


"Cobb? Are you lisdening to be? Cobb?"  
  


"Yes. I'm still here. Everyone is fine. Ariadne figured things out and got us out in time. She shot me."  
  


Which was quite terrifying. Who wants to go out by getting shot by a girl? That does _nothing_ for one's masculinity.  
  


"Cobb? Hehe, Cobb. Guess whad?"  
  


"What?"  
  


"Your nabe rhymes with Bob. Cobb, bob. Corn on the cob," Arthur sings out.  
  


"You're very disturbing when you're medicated, I'll have you know. Go to sleep."  
  


"Okay."

* * *

So, all in all, fucking Hong Kong was a motherfucking bitch.  
  


But, this isn't a story about Hong Kong (although it's definitely one of their better ones). It isn't a story about how imprudent Dom can be at times, or how badass Ariadne is in times of stress.  
  


No. This is a story about class, integrity, and most of all, Eames trying to get into Arthur's pants.

* * *

" _Yusuf_ , my man."  
  


The chemist looks up from his work. "Yes, Eames?"  
  


"What do you know about everyone's favorite point man?"  
  


Yusuf looks confused. "Pat? How do you know about Pat? I thought you didn't work with him."  
  


It's Eames's turn to be questioning. " _Pat?_ No, I mean Arthur."  
  


Yusuf nods. "Oh. Why did you assume that Arthur is the favorite? Just because he's the only one you've worked with doesn't mean he's the crowd favorite. I mean, that's like choosing _vanilla_ as your favorite ice cream. There are plenty of other flavors that still incorporate it, but they're _so_ much better."  
  


"Yusuf." Eames snaps his fingers. "Back on track."  
  


"Oh. Arthur, yes."  
  


It's silent.  
  


"Yusuf!" Eames bites out. "Arthur?"  
  


"I don't know."  
  


"What do you _mean_ you don't know?"  
  


Yusuf shrugs. "Why do you want to know more about Arthur? Why don't you just look in his files or something?"  
  


Eames shakes his head. "No, no. I want know more about _Arthur_. Not his history or medical records. But, like, his hobbies—"  
  


"—Shooting people and creating paradoxes—" Yusuf replies happily.  
  


"—vices—"  
  


"—Shooting people—"  
  


"—and things he finds romantic, and don't you dare say 'shooting people'."  
  


Yusuf frowns. "I was going to say suffocation. He seems like the kind of guy to get off by erotic asphyxiation. That's probably why he loves his ties so much. Why are you asking me about his sex life?"  
  


"I'm not! I'm asking about Arthur! We had some conversation about maple syrup and syphilis and now I'm curious."  
  


"Arthur has syphilis?"  
  


"No!" Eames recoils. "At least…I don't think so. I don't know. Bollocks."  
  


"So, you need my help getting into Arthur's pants?"  
  


"Christ. Help a bloke out, Yusuf."  
  


"Why are you asking me?"  
  


"You're my best mate! Who else would I ask?"  
  


"Oh, I don't know. Arthur, perhaps?"  
  


Eames looks blank.  
  


"Ok, then. Not Arthur."  
  


Eames scowls. "Any information would help, love."  
  


"Don't ever call me that again," Yusuf looks stricken.  
  


"So you'll help me?" the forger lights up.  
  


"I think, and don't you dare quote me on this, that he likes romantic gestures. Random gifts, flowers, anonymous notes, poetry, random compliments."  
  


"Anonymous compliments! That's perfect! Thank you, love!"  
  


"Don't call me—" Yusuf starts to gripe, but before he can complete the thought, Eames has engulfed him in a hug and is running out the door.

* * *

Eames sits down next to Yusuf three days later. The team has met up with Arthur in Honolulu to learn more about the latest target.  
  


"So," Yusuf prods. "How'd your flirtatious devices turn out?"  
  


"Wonderfully," Eames replies. "Once Arthur finds all the notes, he'll be a groveling mess in my arms. It'll be love without restraint, dreams within dreams, life _unex_ —"  
  


_"EAMES!"  
  
_

"How did he know?" Eames asks, wide-eyed.  
  


Yusuf stands. "Just remember, he likes shooting people."  
  


"Eames!" Arthur is standing in front of him, now, shoving a handful of index cards in his face. "What the hell _is_ this?"  
  


Plan A. Feign innocence.  
  


"I don't know."  
  


"You-you _don't know_?" Arthur sputters. "This! This is completely and utterly unprofessional and verging on _disturbing_ , Eames!" He shoves a couple of cards at the forger. "Why don't you remind yourself about what you did!"  
  


Eames looks at the cards. Each one consists of stick figures in crudely drawn Kama Sutra positions.  
  


_I wan to kiss yur bowling ball shaped arse.  
  
_

_I dream of sexing myself up with yur arm. Yur musles are exkwisite.  
  
_

_I emagin the tisue is yur mouth when I wank. I'm sure the Kleanex isn't nearly as soft, thouh.  
  
_

Eames gapes, horrified. "I swear I didn't write these!"  
  


"Don't play stupid."  
  


"Yusuf! It had to have been Yusuf! _Damn filthy traitor_."  
  


"Don't drag him into this! This is you Eames! Take the goddamn blame once in a while. This," he points to a drawing of a stick figure sucking another stick figure's stick penis, "is not okay. If you can't act professionally around me, then you just might have to find another point man."  
  


"Arthur! I didn't write those notes! I mean, I wrote notes, yes, but they were nicer! I mean, I did compliment your arse…and arms…and I may have mentioned something about touching myself thinking of you, but it wasn't in a creepy way! I swear, Arthur!"  
  


"And you're telling me Yusuf did these?"  
  


Eames is relieved. "Yes. Thank you. Exa—"  
  


"You're sicker than I thought."  
  


"What?"  
  


"Dragging our chemist into this? If you're going to be jealous of him, there are better ways to bring him down. Don't ever drag me into your pathetic wars. _Ever_. Are we clear?"  
  


"Arthur…"

  
_"Are. We. Clear?"  
  
_

"…Yes."

  
As soon as Arthur leaves the room, Yusuf enters, holding a cup of coffee in his hand that says "Wanted by the Law: Schrodinger's Cat, Dead And/Or Alive" with a picture of a box.

  
Eames turns and gives him the stink eye. "You."

  
"I had to do it."  
  


Eames gawks. "You're not even going to _deny_ it?"  
  


Yusuf raises an eyebrow. "There's no point. I got the fun out of it I wanted."  
  


"Why, Yusuf? Why?"  
  


The bored chemist replies, "I was bored. I found your notes and decided to improve on them. You're welcome."  
  


"' _Improve_ '? ' _You're welcome'_?" Eames repeats.  
  


"You wanted Arthur's attention. You got it."  
  


" _You_ got his attention! And it wasn't _good_ attention!"  
  


"You never specified. Specificity, Eames."  
  


_"Jesus Christ."  
  
_

Yusuf sips his coffee and grins over the rim of the cup.

* * *

"Ariadne, my woman. How does our favorite point man kiss?"  
  


"DAD! There's some guy on the phone talking about points I can kiss!"  
  


Eames is baffled. "Wha—? No. No, that's no—"  
  


He's interrupted by a gruff voice. "Who the fuck is this?"  
  


"Dom?"  
  


"Eames?"  
  


_"Dominick?"  
  
_

"Do you start all your conversations this way?" Dom asks.  
  


"What way?"  
  


Dom sighs. " _By propositioning children_. Or is it just mine?"  
  


"Why do you have Ariadne's phone?" Eames shoots back.  
  


"I don't have her phone."  
  


"Yes! I called Ariadne and you answered," Eames tells him because, duh.  
  


"You called me," Dom responds because, double duh.  
  


Eames looks at his phone. Sure enough, he had dialed Dom's number and not the architect's.  
  


"Oh."  
  


"All that jacking off is bad for your eyesight, Eames."  
  


Two melodic voices pipe up, "Daddy! Daddy! We heard a joke! Listen, listen! I helped my friend Jack off a horse." They erupt into a fit of giggles, as Dom groans unhappily.

 

"Now look what you've done! Pippa! James!"  
  


"What I did?"  
  


There's a click, and Eames is met by silence.  
  


He spends approximately fifteen seconds staring at his phone, ten considering calling Dom back, and five doing just that.  
  


"Dom, what does our favorite point man like?"  
  


"Why do you want to know about Patrick? Do you even know Pat?"  
  


"Not Pat! Why does everyone think I'm talking about Pat?"  
  


"He's the favorite. Obviously. _Everyone?_ "  
  


"…Yusuf and you," Eames admits. "I'm talking about Arthur."  
  


"Oh," Dom seems genuinely disappointed. "Pat was fun. I miss Pat."  
  


"We're not talking about Pat!" Eames shouts frustrated.  
  


"Why do you want to know what Arthur likes?" Dom probes.  
  


"Dom, please," the forger implores.  
  


"He likes shooting people."  
  


"You're pathetically useless."  
  


"And puzzles. He loves a good puzzle."  
  


"Puzzles. Got it."  
  


Eames hangs up and prepares for work the next day.

* * *

"Why are there boxes of puzzles on my desk, Eames?"  
  


Dom stares over at the forger, who is now looking at Arthur in happiness.  
  


"And," Arthur continues, straightening up, "I thought we had a talk about your notes."  
  


"We did," Eames admits.  
  


"Then tell me why you left me a note that says _, 'So, I heard you like enemas'?"  
  
_

"Enigmas!" Eames cries. Dom is trying, and failing, to hold back his laughter.  
  


"Oh my God. You didn't, Eames. No way. That's priceless."  
  


The Englishman glares at Cobb. "Shut up, Cobb!"  
  


"Again, Eames. Subtlety. _Tact_. Show some. And don't you dare blame Dom for this one."  
  


The phone rings, and Arthur stalks out of the room to answer it.  
  


"You," Eames points at Dominick. "How could you?"  
  


"You seriously got him puzzles?"  
  


"You told me to!"  
  


"I told you he liked puzzles. Paradoxes. Enigmas," he howls. "Enigmas, Eames _. Enigmas_."  
  


"Shut the fuck up, you sabotager."  
  


"I didn't sabotage you. That's not even a word." He pauses to take a breath. "Why don't you just talk to him like a normal person?"  
  


Arthur pokes his head back in the room and calls the group to a meeting to discuss the latest extraction.  
  


Eames glowers at the extractor. "This isn't over."  
  


The echoes of Dom's laughter follow Eames as he runs after Arthur.

* * *

**To: Arthur  
From: Eames  
Sent at 11:24PM**

_hey  
  
_  
 **From: Arthur  
To: Eames  
Sent at 11:25PM**

_What do you want?  
  
_  
 **To: Arthur  
From: Eames  
Sent at 11:27PM**

_i wanto apolagize  
_  
  
 **From: Arthur  
To: Eames  
Sent at 11:30PM**

_Okay.  
  
_  
 **From: Arthur  
To: Eames  
Sent at 11:47PM**

_I'm waiting.  
  
_  
 **From: Eames  
To: Arthur  
Sent at 11:55PM**

_for what  
  
_  
 **From: Arthur  
To: Eames  
Sent at 11:57PM**

_For your apology, Eames.  
_

**  
  
From: Eames  
To: Arthur  
Sent at 12:01AM**

_i did apalogize i thot u acsepted it u sed 'okay'_  
  
 **  
From: Arthur  
To: Eames  
Sent at 12:03AM**

_I'm going to bed.  
  
_  
 **From: Eames  
To: Arthur  
Sent at 12:04AM**

_so, im forgivin  
  
  
_

**From: Eames  
To: Arthur  
Sent at 12:07AM**

_arthur  
  
_  
 **From: Eames  
To: Arthur  
Sent at 12:20AM**

_arthur?  
_  
  
 **From: Eames  
To: Arthur  
Sent at 12:36AM**

_im sorry.  
  
_  
 **From: Arthur  
To: Eames  
Sent at 12:49AM**

_Go to sleep, Mr. Eames._  
 **  
  
From: Eames  
To: Arthur  
Sent at 12:52AM**

_sweet dreams darling  
  
_  
 **From: Arthur  
To: Eames  
Sent at 1:07AM**

_Goodnight._

* * *

"Ariadne?"  
  


"Yes?"  
  


"Oh, thank God. I was worried I called Cobb again."  
  


"…Ok. Eames?"  
  


"Yes?"  
  


"What do you want?"  
  


Eames exhales. "What's Arthur like in the sack?"  
  


" _Um_. What? Did you really just ask me that?"  
  


"Just answer the question, Ariadne!"  
  


He can't see her frowning, but he knows she is.  
  


She's silent for a moment, pondering the question. "Why do you assume that I would know something like that?"  
  


"I just assumed—"  
  


"Again with the assumptions!"  
  


"So?" Eames prods.  
  


"We never slept together," she answers honestly.  
  


"Oh. I see."  
  


"Why did you want to know? There are easier ways to get into his pants, you know."  
  


Eames waits. "…Ideas?"  
  


"Off the top of my head, talk to him. Tell him how you feel."  
  


"I already tried that!"  
  


"Oh? How'd it go?"  
  


"Bloody _fantastic_ ," Eames replies sarcastically. "Horribly! Is it just me, or is Arthur bad at phone sex?"  
  


" _You_ had _phone sex_ with _Arthur_?"  
  


"Attempted. _Attempted._ "  
  


"It was you," Ariadne tells him.  
  


"What?"  
  


"Arthur is kickass at phone sex. It was obviously you."  
  


"…Shite. Does Arthur have syphilis?"  
  


"Arthur has syphilis?"  
  


"Okay, then. He doesn't. What do I do?"  
  


Ariadne contemplates her next answer. "What's the quickest way to a man's heart?"  
  


"Through his chest?"  
  


"No, Eames. His stomach. It's through his _stomach._ "  
  


Eames is silent.  
  


"Food, Eames! Make him something! _Christ_ Almighty."  
  


She hangs up.  
  


_"Oh."_

* * *

"I made you something, Arthur." Eames is holding out a small piece of chocolate cake to the point man.  
  


"I'm on the phone," he mouths, not glancing at the proffered food. "Yes, I know he's infuriating, but…no, no I was not aware of that…I still don't thi…There are better ways to go about this, Mr. Patrice…I do not…I will. Goodbye."  
  


"Who was that?"  
  


"Client. He failed to mention some important information. It's fine. Is that cake?"  
  


"Yes."  
  


"For me?"  
  


"For you."  
  


Arthur grabs the piece and takes a few slow, deliberate bites. "This is actually pretty good, Eames. I'm impressed."  
  


"You're beautiful when you're patronizing, did you know that?"  
  


Arthur laughs, actually laughs and asks, "What's in it?"  
  


"Raspberry filling, chocolate chips, nuts—"  
  


"Nuts?" Arthur repeats back.  
  


"…Yes?"  
  


"I'm allergic, Eames!" He trails out of the room, utterances of "Shit shit shit fucking shit" escaping his mouth.  
  


He's not lying, it turns out. He is allergic, but not terribly so. His face doesn't swell and he breathes just fine, but there are the telltale signs of a rash on his throat and hands. Despite looking quite uncomfortable, he surges through the meeting with few problems.

* * *

So, the latest strategy doesn't go quite the way Eames wanted it to, but Ariadne gives him props for trying.  
  


"Props, Eames."  
  


"I could've _killed_ him." Eames shoves his face into his hands and groans.  
  


"Yes. That's true," Ariadne comforts.  
  


"I'm a terrible person."  
  


"That is also true."  
  


"You're a horrible friend."  
  


Ariadne looks at him, aghast. "I'm a wonderful friend. It's not my fault you didn't think to look into his medical files."  
  


Eames has no response to this.

* * *

"Saito, my man!"  
  


"Just tell him how you feel, Mr. Eames."  
  


"…Who told you?"  
  


Saito grins through the phone. "Mr. Cobb warned that something like this would happen."  
  


"You want me to talk to Arthur?" Eames reiterates.  
  


"I don't care what you do with your personal life, Mr. Eames. I'm just giving you the best advice I can think of so you don't call back about this again."  
  


"You want me to talk to him?"  
  


"I think we've already determined that, yes."  
  


"You're useless."  
  


Eames hangs ups.  
  


He waves his arms in the air (like he just don't care).  
  


"I give up!"

* * *

"I give up!" he says again, this time in the presence of the whole team, sans Arthur.  
  


"At what?" Yusuf asks.  
  


Eames stares at him. "Everything. Arthur. Life. _Arthur._ Fuck it all."  
  


"At least you tried," Ariadne pipes in.  
  


"Where is he, by the way?" Dom wonders aloud.  
  


There's a chorus of "I dunno"s and "don't look at me"s and "he's not my problem"s.  
  


"I probably scared him off," Eames says sadly. "We've lost our point man."  
  


"There's always Pat," Yusuf offers happily.  
  


Dom grins. "Yes, there's always Pat."

* * *

It takes some time (a week, to be exact) before Eames is able to figure out where Arthur is. Not that he cares, of course. He's given up on that.  
  


But it's been a week without any contact. No condescension. No dimply smiles. No heavenly laughs. No creamy skin and coffee eyes and hair that looks the color of melted fudge.  
  


There was simply a mass text sent to the group.  
  


**To: Ariadne, Dominick, Eames, Saito, Yusuf  
From: Arthur  
Sent at 3:46AM**

_Job's off.  
  
  
_ **From: Dominick  
To: Arthur  
Sent at 3:48AM** __

_You're lucky I was already up. We'll talk later.  
_  
  
 **From: Ariadne  
To: Arthur  
Sent at 3:49AM**

_You have the worst sleeping schedule ever.  
  
_ **  
From: Eames  
To: Arthur  
Sent at 3:49AM  
** _  
r u ok?_

**  
  
From: Yusuf  
To: Arthur  
Sent at 3:56AM**

_Thank god. id be a terible cemist. im tottaly plastered right now.  
  
_ **  
From: Saito  
To: Arthur  
Sent at 4:00AM**

_Stay safe, Mr. Arthur._

**  
  
From: Eames  
To: Arthur  
Sent at 4:11AM**

_Arthur?  
_  
 **  
From: Eames  
To: Arthur  
Sent at 4:36AM**

_answer me._  
 **  
  
From: Eames  
To: Arthur  
Sent at 5:07AM** __

_im assuming that ur asleep. text me when u get this_

**  
  
From: Eames  
To: Arthur  
Sent at 7:09AM**

_Arthur._ **  
  
  
From: Eames  
To: Arthur  
Sent at 8:34AM**

_Answer me._  
 **  
  
From: Eames  
To: Arthur  
Sent at 8:49AM** __

_Please._

**  
  
From: Eames  
To: Arthur  
Sent at 9:04AM** __

_I'm sorry._

* * *

He's standing outside the building where Arthur is supposed to be staying, according to his research. It's an apartment complex. He's either in 22 or 24A.  
  


Eames knocks on the door of 22A.  
  


It opens to reveal a young woman (supposedly. She looks as if she took a dive into the deep end of drugs), holding a cigarette between her lips.  
  


"What?" she rasps. Her brown teeth are vaguely the color of Arthur's eyes, and Eames can't help but to be mesmerized.  
  


"Arthur?" Eames enquires.  
  


"Ain't no fuckin' Arthor here. Jus me an my baby. You one of the new custmers?"  
  


"I'm pretty sure I have the wrong door."  
  


"Suit yerself sonny. I got other ways to pay the bills."  
  


The door clicks shut.  
  


He gawks for a second, and then tries 24A.  
  


He imagines Arthur holding onto his gun as he cautiously peeks out the window to make sure the visitor isn't a threat, his suit crisp and accentuating his curves exquisitely, shadows dancing off the walls as he pockets the weapon and opens the door for the forger.  
  


He opens the door, alright, but Eames is not met with a view he expected. In front of him stands Arthur, wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a dark blue t-shit. His eyes are red rimmed and his mouth pulled down in a frown.  
  


Eames can see his nipples through the fabric.  
  


"I can see your nipples."  
  


"Jesus Christ, _that's_ the first thing you notice? Fuck. Come inside." The point man drags the forger into the cozy apartment.  
  


Eames looks around and tries to determine how long Arthur has been here. He sees no suitcase. Nothing on the end tables besides a notebook and pen. The bed appears made, but the couch cushions look furrowed.  
  


"How long have you been here for?"  
  


Arthur glances at the ceiling, and then looks at Eames again; the expression on his face something the forger can't quite place.  
  


"I'm sorry," Arthur whispers, palming his totem.  
  


"What?"  
  


"What?"  
  


"Why are you sorry?" Eames questions, quite confused by this conversation. "Why are you here? What happened with the job? I am _so_ bloody _confused_."  
  


"You…You're not mad?" Arthur seems puzzled.  
  


Eames is puzzled.  
  


It's a very puzzling situation.  
  


So, of course, the next thing Eames perceives are two completed and one half-done puzzle set on the floor beside the pullout couch.  
  


"Are those my puzzles?"  
  


" _Your_ puzzles? I'm pretty sure you gave up the right to ownership when you _gave_ them to me."  
  


Eames is silent. "I thought you didn't like puzzles."  
  


Arthur squints. "I love puzzles. I thought that was why you got them for me."  
  


"…Yes."  
  


Arthur assesses the forger. "You can just talk to me, you know."  
  


Eames gapes, horrified. "That's not how this works, darling!"  
  


"Why not, Eames? I'm getting tired of your mixed signals."  
  


" _My_ mixed signals? What are you _on_?"  
  


"Well," Arthur begins, "for starters, you propositioned using my arm as a sex toy—"  
  


"That was Yusuf!" Eames interjects.  
  


"—which was sweet, I suppose, in a really creepy, perverse way."  
  


"…Oh."  
  


"And then you got me the puzzles, yet left a note about enemas, which, again, freaked me out a bit."  
  


"Enigmas."  
  


"You have the worst penmanship I've had the misfortune of coming across. Afterwards, Yusuf showed me the original notes you made."  
  


"I told you it was him! Wait…you saw them?"  
  


"They were a bit cheesy, I admit, but," he looks down, "I may or may not have saved a few in my wallet."

Eames is shocked.

"And then the job got all screwed up and someone placed a hit on _you_ and I had to save _your_ sorry ass without you knowing but you were acting all weird so I thought you _did_ know and were blaming me, and then the thing with the cake didn't make things any better so I left because I _like_ you, but I like living, too," Arthur mumbles quickly, not looking at Eames.

"You sav—there was a hit? On me?"

"That's all you got from me pouring my heart out?"

"You risked your life for mine."

"It wasn't much of a risk, Mr. Eames. He was a _terrible_ shot. Bullet waster."

"You think I'm mad at you," Eames echoes, "for saving my life."

"Well, no. For putting your life in danger in the first place."

"My life is always in danger, love. It comes with the job description."

"I thought you hated me," Arthur babbles.

"For saving my life?"

"You fed me _nuts_!"

"I didn't know you were allergic! It was a mistake and I'm sorry!"

"I know that _now_. And you told people I have _syphilis_!"

"Miscommunication!"

Eames looks ready to cry.

"Are you going to cry?" Arthur queries.

"No," Eames sniffles, his eyes already beginning to fill with tears. "I'm not crying. I'm just mad. I'm tired. I'm done. I tried _so_ hard to do things _right_ , but apparently the stars were never aligned and never will be. I'm destined to be a great forger, but to _fail_ at true emotions or at least anything involving _you_."

Arthur frowns and sets a hand on Eames's shoulder. "You don't have to cry."

"Why haven't you come back?" is the answering snivel.

"I was scared."

The Englishman snorts. "Ha bloody ha. You're a riot."

"It's true," Arthur declares. "I thought you hated me. And so I was freaked out about coming back. And then you kept texting me and I couldn't stop looking at the notes. I mean, _'I wonder if you have dimples on your arse to match the ones on your face'_ isn't the sweetest as love notes go, but it's you. And I appreciated that. And I couldn't stop thinking about you. I kept imagining your fucking _lips_ and the phone call from Helsinki and how it _might've_ gone. You kept giving me things and it was sweet in a weird way and I seriously thought you were trying to kill me at one point, but I still lured the hit man to me instead of you and I couldn't even tell you about that because I thought you knew and that's why you _hated_ me."

Arthur may or may not be blubbering at this point.

And that may or may not matter as Eames may or may not have just surged forward and pressed his lips to Arthur's.

"Did you just kiss me?" Arthur breathes against Eames's mouth.

"I might've. I don't remember," Eames whispers, his mouth still slighting pressing into Arthur's.

Arthur sighs and increases the pressure for a few seconds, before taking Eames's lower lip between his teeth.

Eames groans. "I'm pretty sure you're the one who kissed me that time."

Arthur smiles. "Are you complaining, Mr. Eames?"

Eames smirks. "Never, darling." He mopes. "I _am_ very bloody sorry for _everything_ I put you through even though I really did mean the best and I really hope that this doesn't screw up your image of me, as _fine_ as it may be, and, I mean—"

Arthur shuts him up with another kiss.

"Shut up Mr. Eames."

And Eames is more than happy to comply.


End file.
